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Dave Bonta
I slept in a paper box,
forgot where I put my hands.
People work to make a light
into my cellar.
I am sorry for lying
to my picture in the glass,
for writing to please friends
and not the rules of art.
I found carpenter’s tools,
which spoke to me.
hold me
not
these tools
a shape
is
worked into
and
above all
say
you know
it's just
too damned
beauti-
-ful.
With such fashioned metal and wood,
he didn’t mean to leave his mark, imprint
“Tam.” Mostly he was building shelter,
earning wages, securing premises. Also,
he was one to impress his will on
the present, not the future. That
rubbed handle nonetheless bears
an inadvertent mark only his palm
could have left. This other handle’s
darkened by days, by years, of perspiration,
his specific salts. This mechanism here—
he repaired it himself. Note his deliberate,
improvised way, the practical jazz
of rural labor, making things keep
functioning when parts aren’t available
right away. This workshop is cold.
I pray to be the tool which to your hand
Long use has shaped and moulded till it be
Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly,
You take it for its service. I demand
To be forgotten in the woven strand
Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry
Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie
A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band.
I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams,
The railing to the stairway of the clouds,
To guard your steps securely up, where streams
A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds
Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby
You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.